


Obsession

by valeriange



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 16:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valeriange/pseuds/valeriange
Summary: Pharma was not obsessed with Ratchet, no matter how much First Aid liked to joke about it.





	Obsession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [razorkillrabbits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/razorkillrabbits/gifts).



Pharma was _not_ obsessed with Ratchet, no matter how much First Aid liked to joke about it.

He did _not_ think about Ratchet’s voice late at night like some lovesick fool after Ratchet walked out while his back was turned. He did _not_ think about Ratchet’s hands in the middle of a routine four-way fuel pump transplant after Ratchet was made CMO instead of him. He did _not_ think about Ratchet’s wittier remarks whenever he was in a painfully dull conversation when Ratchet had chosen to join a mad mission rather than find him again.

He tried not to, at least. But the last few dozens of centuries as a whole were hard to forget, considering he had spent the majority of them at his conjunx’s – _former_ conjunx’s – side. Ratchet was inextricable from his memories, but he was so worthless to Ratchet that he could walk out in the middle of Pharma asking him for advice.

It wasn’t _fair_. It wasn’t fair that Pharma be left feeling the brunt of a broken spark bond while Ratchet traversed the galaxy without a care. It wasn’t fair that Pharma still had to love him when Ratchet clearly didn’t feel the same, and Pharma had to wonder if he ever had at all.

* * *

Being sealed in the quarantine chamber was bad enough. Being rescued by Ratchet like he was his mech in shining armor was far worse.

Part of Pharma wanted to grab him as soon as the chamber opened and confess how terrible things had been since he left – the DJD, Tarn, dealing with Sonic and Boom, and First Aid’s relentless reminding of his former conjunx, however jokingly it may have been. It all _hurt_ so much. Part of him thought if he just confessed everything right there, Ratchet would sigh and mosey up to the DJD’s base and tell Tarn off until he left with his tail between his legs and scold Pharma in a way just as meaningless as it had been when Pharma had been just a haughty student not following Ratchet’s advice.

While Ratchet opened the chamber, the mech behind him – a white speedster with a pretty face and unnecessary amount of swords – turned on Ratchet’s orders to deal with the infected mech. Pharma watched as he transformed smoothly into a sleek racing model and back again and knocked the mech out with the handle of one of his swords.

Pharma stepped out of the quarantine, torn between salvaging what he could of his pride and flinging his arms around the conjunx he never had a chance to say goodbye to, only to find that Ratchet was no longer waiting on him.

He stood side to side with the white speedster, a servo on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” He spoke quietly in that gruff voice of his, the one he never used on patients or acquaintances or…

The white speedster ducked his head. “I— I’ll check on Pipes.” And he quickly fled from Ratchet’s grasp.

Ratchet turned back to Pharma. An afterthought.

Pharma’s spark spun painfully in his chassis. “I worked it out. I’m going to the cells,” he said, before he could say something terribly stupid like ‘ _Nice to see you again, I still love you.’_

Ratchet didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t even say anything to see him off. Last Pharma saw, he was taking a stand beside the white speedster, looking down at their fallen crewmate.

* * *

Ratchet had a _friend_.

Pharma sulked through the halls, trying to wrap his mind around the idea.

Ratchet – the CMO, callous, vitriolic, no-nonsense, _alone_ – had a _friend_.

In all his time at the Academy and then at Ratchet’s side as his fellow medic, Pharma never considered Ratchet as one to have friends. He had his amica, Orion Pax, but no one else. A few acquaintances, some coworkers, but nobody he would run to if it were between them and a patient. Primus, Pharma didn’t think even during the best times of their relationship that Ratchet would choose him over his job.

Pharma was fine with Ratchet not having friends. He may have even encouraged it in some ways. There was something satisfying about monopolizing all of his available time to suit himself.

A civilian? “Ratchet, they’ll never understand the life of a medic.”

A nurse? “Ratchet, they’ll lose respect for you as a superior officer.”

A medic? “Ratchet, they’ll use whatever you tell them to better their own chances of making CMO.”

A speedster? “Ratchet, they just want a free medic for their races.”

An enforcer? “Ratchet, they just want a medic to break patient confidentiality after a few drinks to further their investigations.”

A leaker? “Ratchet, they’ll just use you to get drugs.”

Pharma never had to worry about Ratchet being busy when he wanted to go grab a drink. He never had to worry about Ratchet finding someone other than Pharma if he never had a chance to befriend anyone else. Pharma kept their relationship tightly secured.

He never had to feel jealous, so _what_ was it that he was feeling now? It couldn’t be jealousy. After so long of listening to Pharma, even after he had gone, Ratchet would have remembered their conversations, surely. He would have remembered all the reasons why befriending a speedster would only hurt him. So why? Why did he care about him? Why did he go to him and not Pharma? _Why not Pharma_?

Pharma _seethed_.

* * *

He wandered back toward the operating room, taking his sweet time, because apparently Ratchet didn’t care enough to check on him in this palace of viral death. He was only going into the bowels of the fortress where the criminals, likely infected, resided. There was absolutely no reason for Ratchet to be concerned, of course! There would be no reason for Ratchet to come with him, alone, away from the others.

His fingers clenched so tightly into his palm that the words dented. _Your friend is upset_. Frag that, _Pharma_ was upset! How could Ratchet not see that? How could Ratchet be so cold when Pharma was hurting so much?

Sonic and Boom sensed his mood. They stayed helpfully quiet.

He heard commotion, knew without really listening in that they were panicking over saving the infected mech. Pity, he thought. Surely he would be such a great loss. He debated outside the door on sliding in, just to watch Ratchet work, see his hands move, almost as wonderfully as Pharma’s did.

“—effects of the virus?” Ambulon was saying.

“All I know is that this Autobot is scared.” Oh, so Ratchet could sense this mech’s mood, but not Pharma’s? “I’m just pleased that my hands are still good for something.”

The conversation faded to nothing after that, and Pharma felt a sickening glee take over his spark. Learning from Ratchet at the Academy had been nice, but afterward, the business of their lives as medics took priority over their relationship. Pharma had entertaining fantasies of Ratchet retiring early, forfeiting the CMO title to him, and staying home, away from the hospital. There would be no checking complex surgery schedules to go on dates around. There would be no fretting about emergencies at the hospital while they enjoyed a drink in town. And if so, then Pharma could stand up and handle it quickly and return and tell the story to Ratchet and Ratchet would have all the time in the world to listen to how he saved them all and be appreciative that his apprentice was so accomplished.

“Ratchet?” There was that white speedster again, though now he sounded more apprehensive. “I need to talk to you…”

Pharma’s spark stuttered. The speedster and Ratchet were friends, sure, but if planned on confessing his love to Pharma’s conjunx, surely he wouldn’t do it here? But, then again, they believed they all might be dying, and that could fuel some last-minute honesty. No, no, he couldn’t confess. Ratchet couldn’t think a speedster was a viable option.

“Stay back!” Ratchet said. “You might get infected.”

Concern? From _Ratchet_?

“I think it’s a bit late for that.”

Scrap. The speedster was dying. He had nothing to lose. He could say it now and ruin Pharma’s chances at a reunion with Ratchet. He couldn’t have a conjunx stuck moping over something that could have been, fueled by the memories of caring for a lost lover in their tragic last moments. It was depressingly romantic.

“Throw me through the wall,” Pharma said.

They didn’t even hesitate.

* * *

Pharma spewed something about the prisoners getting out, and the two Decepticons entered with slag-eating grins. Ratchet immediately jumped in front of— well, not Pharma. He took a stance that was equally in front of the white speedster and Pharma. The speedster had his bleeding optics buried in his servos, and Pharma keeled over to better study his curled frame.

Before Ratchet could plead for their lives – and Pharma could hear whether he named Pharma’s worth or the white speedster’s – First Aid interrupted alongside Fortress Maximus, and then Pharma’s Decepticons were no more.

Ratchet rushed to calm Fortress Maximus, and Pharma, with his spark once more in equilibrium, began to try to pull himself to his feet. So Ratchet hadn’t rushed to either him or the white speedster. He forced down a grin. It was a tie for now, he supposed.

The rage stopped, and the room became quiet again. A servo placed itself on Pharma’s shoulder. He looked up, optics wide, prepared to give his best ‘I’m injured but I’m powering through it nevertheless’ expression to Ratchet, only to find First Aid’s visor looking down at him.

“You’re injured, Pharma,” First Aid said. Shocking. “C’mere – let me take a look at you.”

“Don’t!” Pharma shoved off his servo. “I’m _fine_ ,” he snapped.

He looked over to see Ratchet lacing his arms beneath the white speedster’s frame, picking him up effortlessly off the floor and placing him gently on a slab. The speedster maintained a gear-groaning grip on Ratchet’s hands. Rather than shove him off and continue his examination like any medic would – like Ratchet, of all medics would – he simply grasped the other side of the speedster’s servo with his free one. He bent down slightly, his hips pressed against the slab so no space was wasted between them.

Pharma felt like he was looking in on a scene of him and Ratchet, back in their apartment, after a long day at the Academy, one of them lying down and the other gently waking him up to inform him of his arrival home. It looked so hauntingly familiar, the intimacy, and it left Pharma feeling numb as he observed it. It was not his servo that Ratchet held. It was not his optics that Ratchet gazed softly into. That look was not one given to patients in poor conditions; that was one that had been given to _him_ after a tiring day, after an argument with another professor, after a failed surgery.

The voice was quiet, but Pharma heard every heartbreaking word.

“This takes me back – all the way to Rodion and you. You trying desperately to save my life.”

He was one of them. The Dead End leakers. An addict. A cold-constructed, unwanted, unnecessary, fuel-leeching piece of slag.

He didn’t hear the rest of their exchange. The only noise he registered was the whirr of his own spark spinning furiously beneath his chassis, and even that seemed distant.

He put his gun to Ambulon’s head. A good, interesting injury would get Ratchet’s attention fairly quickly.

And Ratchet was quick to jump in the middle, to demand what Pharma was doing. He spewed some slag about blaming it on Ambulon. A Decepticon might as well take the fall for it. Getting Ratchet away from the infected leaker was just a plus, really.

Then First Aid had to notice the transformation cogs in the Decepticon corpses.

“Ratchet—” _beloved_ “—buddy, you don’t believe this, do you?”

“Show me your alt mode,” Ratchet said.

Pharma felt like his spark had turned to ice. His Ratchet would have never questioned him. He would have placated both sides when it came to Pharma, because Pharma was worth protecting. A displeased Pharma proved ill for any side involved, and it didn’t take Ratchet’s extensive medical knowledge to know that it was better to prevent the disease than try to treat it.

He refused.

He found a gun pointed in his face by his conjunx. A part of Pharma broke so horribly he wanted the trigger to be pulled. But they had had fights with threats of death before; this was just a little more physical. They could recover. They had before.

Ratchet said his piece, and First Aid and Ambulon said theirs, and the dots were connected. And Ratchet said, “And that, Pharma – buddy – is why—”

And Pharma didn’t really hear the rest. He heard ‘buddy’, and his denta ground together, and he felt his fingers press into the fresh dents in his palm, and he pointed his gun at Ratchet.

“Well done,” he said. His conjunx, his lover, his old professor, stared back at him with an unwavering gaze as he spoke. “No, really. Well done. Full marks.”

Ratchet tried to bring in logic. You can’t kill four bots with one bullet.

So Pharma shot out the life support machine, and hoped Ratchet had had the time to hook the speedster up to it.

* * *

Ratchet arrived late. Pharma wondered if he had taken extra time with checking over the white speedster. His servos were no good for surgery anymore, but they had to be good for something else.

“I’m unarmed, Pharma, so you can put down the—”

Pharma put the gun back on Ratchet. There was something satisfying about seeing his face in the sights.

“Look, even my wrists are empty. I’ve come here as your friend to talk some sense into you,” Ratchet said, as he tried to calm Pharma. It almost made him laugh, to hear his conjunx call him a friend as a way to placate him. As if that was what Pharma wanted to hear. As if that was what anyone wanted to hear after not seeing their conjunx for years following an unexpected departure. The tone-deafness was truly astounding.

“Oh, Ratchet” – his name felt good to say after so long of not allowing himself to – “it’s been a while since anyone tried to do that.” For good measure, he added cuttingly, “And for what it’s worth, you’re my friend, too.” _You were my conjunx_.

Red stains streaked down Ratchet’s face. A part of Pharma broke upon seeing the evidence of the virus on his conjunx – no, not his conjunx. Not anymore. “Aw. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

He gave Ratchet a moment to make his precursory sarcastic remark, and then he explained how _he_ kept Delphi standing. Ratchet may not think of them as conjunx anymore, but they were. And Ratchet should have been glad to have _him_ – the savior of Delphi, the one thing that kept the whole place standing – as a conjunx. Pharma could have taken complete control of Delphi from his point of power. He could have had any bot here he wanted, and he still wanted Ratchet.

Ratchet said, “I’m listening,” and before Pharma could even hope, he added, “I’m also thinking of a way to purge the virus from my system, grab a blunt object, and beat the smile off your smug, traitorous face. Just so we’re clear.”

Pharma kept the grin on his face through sheer will alone. Hearing a threat of bodily harm from Ratchet was new. Well, hearing it from Ratchet the medic wasn’t new, but hearing it from Ratchet his conjunx was. Apparently Ratchet had changed more than he originally thought. But, with friends like an ex-Decepticon leaker, what could one expect?

Pharma did explain his plan. He confessed everything, every little detail he could think of, and Ratchet mocked him for it.

“I’ve been held at gunpoint by the best,” Ratchet said, “and I’ve never known anyone take so long to explain their grand plan.”

Ratchet had never complained when Pharma told his stories as his conjunx. He was quiet, and his snarky remarks were fewer, and he acted like a student listening to a lecture that would be on the test. The bitter part of Pharma wondered if he had zoned out in reality, or if he worried about Pharma’s biting temper if he did. Pharma had learned from the best, after all.

Ratchet observed a fact that had forgone Pharma’s notice, as consumed by his conjunx as he was – he was standing in rust.

Pharma leapt back, and a fist connected with the underside of his jaw. Pharma fell back against the far tables, and found Ratchet’s gun still pointed at his face. Ratchet’s expression was as hard and focused as if he were in a complex surgery; Pharma had observed enough to know.

“Yep,” Ratchet said, “that felt as good as I thought it would.”

Pharma wondered how long Ratchet had been aching to do that. Since he walked in and saw the mess Pharma had let become of Delphi? Since he lost patience with Pharma and walked out in the middle of Pharma’s talking? Since some unknown point in their relationship as conjunx? How long had he smiled back at Pharma while wishing he could knock that smug grin away?

Ratchet had already deduced that he had a vaccine. Pharma realized, for the first time, that he might actually be in danger. The influence of the ex-Decepticon – no, _Decepticon_ – on his conjunx must be far deeper than he originally thought. This Ratchet, who had cradled a Decepticon in his arms, was not the one that he had taken the conjunx ritus with.

Pharma said Ratchet wouldn’t dare shoot him. He couldn’t. His own conjunx couldn’t stare him in the optics and put a bullet in his head as he sat defenseless.

Ratchet said, “If you must know, I can’t shoot you because my trigger finger isn’t working.”

Well, if that was the case, if Ratchet was willing to shoot Pharma if he had the ability, then—

—Pharma transformed his shoulder blasters and fired at Ratchet.

* * *

He climbed onto the roof and found himself staring at an odd little alien with its servos crossed sternly. A human.

A distraction.

Ratchet tackled him from behind, and the sole vaccine went skittering. A pede stomped down hard on his servo before he could grab it. “You’ve killed us both!” Pharma cried.

“You died a long time ago, Pharma,” Ratchet said. “And as for me… my hands don’t work, I’m miles from anyone I truly care about—” What about him? _What about Pharma_? “Bottom line? I’ve got nothing to lose.”

Pharma thought about the pretty white speedster below them, and he wondered if the red rust had irrevocably taken hold on him yet. He wondered if Ratchet would be back in time to watch the light die from his optics. He left Pharma before Pharma’s death, but maybe he could experience the exquisite pain of losing a love right in front of him, unable to prevent it.

Then Ratchet’s arm popped off.

Pharma scrambled to get a hold on the roof, finally managing when a few mere inches existed between his fingers and the edge. He dug in as best he could, but he knew it was hopeless. His servos couldn’t support him over the edge forever.

“Ratchet, please,” he said. He was his conjunx. He couldn’t let him die. He couldn’t let him fall to his death. It was too horrible. He was a jet, unable to transform. Ratchet had to know how horrible this death would be to him. He had to still care some for him.

Ratchet turned away.

“No!”

Pharma didn’t have a chance to even be surprised. He saw a flash of white, and recognized the tall finials of Ratchet’s speedster, and the glint of a silver sword caught the light as it fell down on his hands.

* * *

It was wrong, the way he looked at it. The way he looked at Ratchet and that speedster – Drift, is what he calls himself. He was so consumed with seeing Ratchet as the naïve bot who thought a leaker from the Dead End would truly love him or accept the faintly caring way he expressed love back. He let that theory blind him. He failed to even evaluate the idea that the ex-Decepticon might be so desperate for love that he looked to someone like Ratchet.

He would not make the same mistake again.


End file.
